Outta My Heart
by N.U.T.S
Summary: By The Beach saga. Harold broke up. Who is he going to turn to? Songfic.


A/n: Part One of the By The Beach saga. (For those who don't know, the By The Beach saga is a collection of one-shot fics based on songs by the beach boys.)  
  
A/n: This fic is based on a song called 'Help Me Rhonda'. Needless to say the coupling involves Rhonda. With a big boy Harold! _ remember I tried. No real romancey scenes.  
  
Disclaimer: Hey guess what beach bunnies and surfer dudes? I don't own Hey Arnold! OR the song 'Help Me Rhonda'  
  
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~ Outta My Heart ~  
  
"Well since she put me down, I've been out doin' in my head.  
  
I come in late at night, and in the morning I just lay in bed.  
  
Well Rhonda you look so fine, and I know it wouldn't take much time  
  
For you to help me Rhonda  
  
Help me get her outta my heart." - Beach Boys (the lyrics are kind repetitive so I just put this down)  
  
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Harold slid his left hand over his gurgling barrel of a stomach as it protested to the hours of food deprivation, as if it might fly off any second and he'd need to catch it. He tried to ignore it and his feet that ached of hours of walking until midnight, as he gazed intently at a picture in his other hand.  
  
Misty-eyed, he sighed remorsefully. "Patty." One word. That's all he uttered. But the unsaid words clung to the objects in the room like dew.  
  
His right hand, having finally tamed his stomach, reached out and stroked the picture's face fondly. A fat tear, large as if to match Harold's size, slipped down a burning cheek, practically boiling, and slipped off his face. Another quickly followed, racing, as if trying to reach the other tear before it evaporated and was nothing more than moonshine.  
  
Quietly, a dozen tears followed, and Harold curled up, hugging his knees to his rounded chest. Choking down a sob, he harshly dragged a meaty fist over his eyelids, grinding the salty tears to air molecules. "Patty." he whispered, croaking as though he was choking on all the emotion that was packed into the name.  
  
Stifling his sobs, as if fearing his assorted crane machine animals might laugh at him, he cried himself to sleep.  
  
_-^-_-^-_  
  
Bright sunlight glistened from the cracks of the window curtains, making air motes dance lazily in the air.  
  
Harold lay in his bed, tear-streaked face passive, sheets in a disgraceful lump at the foot of his bed, and watched in faked interest at the dust waltzing in the air.  
  
Twitching with boredom, his left hand fiddled with the frame of the picture he still clung loosely in his clutches. In the picture sat an indignant girl with a scowl to challenge the famous Helga G. Pataki's and the height to make it more menacing.  
  
It was Patty Smith.  
  
Patty.  
  
They had been dating for six years. SIX! Since they were eleven years old for chrissake!  
  
Then HE came.  
  
Daniel Vercra. The best wrestler. Marks in his classes to rival Phoebe's. Good looks. And to top it all off: he was desperately single. And recently so.  
  
Harold, in dark humor, wondered which had seduced the other.  
  
Either one though meant heartache for him. Just yesterday in fact had it occurred. Painfully so. Embarrassingly so. In front of the whole school.  
  
Harold sighed and rolled onto his stomach and looked around; the silence was starting to pound painfully into his skull. He needed to call somebody. But who? Stinky and Sid were out because they still though girls were gross. Harold suspected they were gay but he wasn't going to say anything to them. Arnold and Helga were either out on a date or making out in Arnold's room. Patty was out for obvious reasons.  
  
Who else did he know?  
  
Then it struck him.  
  
The perfect solution to his entire problem. Both the one of who to call and the one with Patty.  
  
Harold reached over and grabbed the white phone of it's hook and pressed on. Quickly following he pressed the numbers and listened to the beeps that still came after, trailing behind like slow runners in a marathon. Someone on the other end of the call responded.  
  
"Wellington-Lloyd Residence." He figured it was the butler or something like that and sighed mentally in exasperation.  
  
"May I speak to Rhonda?"  
  
"Yes, one moment please." There was a long pause and then a voice crackled onto the phone.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hey Rhonda, it's me, Harold."  
  
"Oh hey," she responded. Seven break-ups had definitely made her more laid back. She had to be if she wanted to handle the heart break she felt each time.  
  
"I was wondering, are you still seeing that Eric fella'?"  
  
"No Harold, I'm not," she said puzzled. Harold smiled triumphantly. Maybe Rhonda could help. Help him peel Patty away from the layer on his heart she had stitched herself onto.  
  
"Good. When can you come over?"  
  
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Dude, got a song by the Beach Boys that your just DYING to be made into a fanfic? Tell me and be assured that I will make it as unique as possible. Remember you tell me the song and I write my own interpretation of it; no requesting couples. (note: Barbara Ann in process) 


End file.
